


A Break in a Cottage

by orphan_account



Series: The Walking Dead 'verse [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, F/M, Sansan happiness though, What Did You Expect, Zombies, always Sansan happiness, fluff in the apocalypse, i mean it's the apocalypse?, irresposible choices, not sure if that's something to search for or avoid, walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor meet up with some old acquaintances in a cottage in the woods. Sounds promising?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Break in a Cottage

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to the Sansan writers who don't sacrifice Sansa's integrity for an angsty Sansan plot that doesn't make sense! *throws cookies to you all*

The cottage was a quiet, quaint little set up they had been enjoying for several weeks now. Barbed fences surrounded the string of tiny homes, and free range bushes had odd assortments of nuts and berries Sansa delighted in picking throughout the day.

After leaving the prison, Sansa and Sandor stayed on the road for close to three weeks straight. Long nights full of terror kept them on edge, and Sandor was angry nearly constantly. When they found the cabins, Sansa had wept with relief; it was temporary, but it was the safest she had felt since this all started.

Sandor didn’t trust the fences, and he worried a fire would attract outsiders, so they kept the smoke at a minimum. Only when necessary did they start a fire, for cooking most times. The nights were cool, but bundling up and cuddling with Sansa atop of him was often enough to stay warm.

The simplicity of their lives was unusual and so far enjoyable for Sansa. And despite his negativity, his overbearing tendencies, and extreme paranoia in some cases, Sandor was beginning to relax too. Not so much as to ever admit it, but enough so that Sansa convinced him to spend some mornings with her, to sometimes sleep the same time she did, to share a meal together.

The quietude changed when someone knocked softly on the door.

Sansa froze briefly, irrational fear glued her to her spot at the wood-burning oven. Sandor had hunted down some squirrels, and she decided to indulge and use some spices they found in a cupboard.

Across the room, Sandor silently shifted and drew up his gun to level away from his chest, braced, cocked and ready for fire.

With a bang, the door was open, and Sandor was bellowing for Sansa to get down, and warnings were being called on all sides—

“DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!” A tall, burly man with more muscles than even Sandor had stood in the doorway, both hands in the air, the whites of his eyes shining with fright. Behind him, Sansa could see the glint of a gun peeking through the gap of the stranger’s waist and the doorframe, but before she could call out to warn Sandor, the mood shifted suddenly, and without warning.

“…Tyreese?” Sandor lowered his gun very, _very_ slowly. “The fuck are you doing here?” Memories of walking a tall, chain fence and killing walkers alongside the man were rushing back, and though they were gruesome in nature, they weren’t all that bad. Tyreese, from the little Sandor had learnt of him, was a good man.

“Tyreese?” Sansa lifted herself from behind the couch—the closest object to duck behind—and vied for a better look at him. Sure enough, the kind dark eyes were familiar and, she noted with a rush of pleasure, happy to see them. Relieved, at the least.

“Sandor? Sansa?” He glanced back and forth between the pair. “Boy, it’s good to see you.”

“Sansa?” A grey-haired woman stepped out from the shadows, two little girls with a baby flocking her shadow. The woman was pretty, delicate-features, and a damn-good aim. Sansa gave a cheery cry.

“Carol!”

* * *

 

Late that evening, when they had all bundled into the cottage and shared the stories which brought them collectively there, Carol watched Sansa with a funny frown as she stroked Mika’s hair.

“Sweet kid,” Sansa murmured, not wanting to wake the girl up. The little girl had done nothing but gush over how charming this place was, and how happy she was to have warm food, and how yummy the roasted pecans were. She was a delight, and so was her sister, Lizzie. Mika’s older sister was enchantingly pretty, vivacious and quirky—but there was something far more… _strong_ about her than in Mika. Lizzie was tough and courageous in ways Mika could never be, and would never be.

She reminded Sansa somewhat of her own sister, Arya.

Carol hummed in agreement, though she looked decidedly unhappy about it. “It’ll get her killed if she’s not careful. She needs to learn what this life is.”

“She’s a child, not a soldier.” Sansa tried to ignore the truth to her words. “You can’t force these things. She’s gotta learn in time.” Yes, in time. And likely through hard lessons.

“We don’t have time,” Carol replied flatly, as though reading her mind. Sansa frowned and looked away. She hadn’t spoken much to the woman when she’d been at the prison for a week, and privately wished that it had been Maggie or Beth she’d run into instead. And she so desperately wished she could see them again, to comfort them after everything they had been through—Tyreese had caught her up on the disastrous events of the prison and a man called the Governor, bent on slaughtering Rick’s whole group. Watching their father die in such a horrific way… _Beheading_ of all things. She tried to imagine what it must have been like, so helpless, so desperate—to watch from the other side of the fence and see the Governor take the head off their gentle, honorable father…

Granted, as much as she missed the Greene sisters, Carol and Tyreese had wound up seeing to the care of baby Judith, Rick’s daughter, and seeing the plump, happy baby was a blessing for more than one reason.

“How far along are you?”

Sansa blinked and jerked her head to stare at Carol. Her expressive eyes held an edge that clearly stated denial was useless. “A mother knows,” the grey-haired woman explained finally, brows furrowing miserably. Sansa felt a keen sting in her chest where those maternal feelings were developing slowly but surely. More than anything, Carol’s eyes held a sort of sorrow that was never truly gone, a different sorrow from the ones the others carried. Like the one Michonne wore. What had been in Hershel’s eyes a time or two. Even in Rick’s.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said softly, “I didn’t know you—”

“Forget that. How far along?”

“Four months,” she admitted, tears springing to her eyes for reasons she didn’t understand. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was relief that someone other than Sandor knew.

Oh yes, Sandor knew. She had told him close to a month ago, when they had first come to this place and he’d touched one of her breasts, eliciting a sharp hiss from her mouth. It wasn’t hard to guess, really. He knew her body as well as she did, and had seen the changes just as well, felt the muscles of her abdominal soften, tasted the change in her body, saw the glow to her skin.

“Are you still sick?” Carol asked, leaning back in her chair. Sandor and Tyreese would be back from their patrol soon, but Sansa found herself wishing that they would stay away for just a few more minutes. Just long enough for her and Carol to wrap this conversation up nice and neat, and not rushed in a way that would leave her disoriented.

“Sometimes,” confessed Sansa. “Staying here seemed to have helped. Sandor rigged the fences with cans so he’ll know if walkers are coming, so I get to relax more.”

Carol nodded in approval. “Good. And...” she paused, biting her tongue proverbially and literally it seemed. “Sansa. You know there are... _options_ for you—”

_“No,”_ her refusal was short but not angry. Tired, maybe. Heavy.

Sandor had tried the same thing when he found out, only _he_ had almost demanded it. Quaking with fear and rage, he’d shouted himself hoarse at her before crumpling on this very carpet and crying great big sobs as he wrapped his arms around her then-slim waist and _begged_ her, absolutely begged her, to let him rid her of it. _No,_ she’d said then, and her answer hadn’t changed a bit.

This was _her baby._

“It’s no place for a baby,” Carol cautioned, moving to stand. They kept their voices low so Mika and Lizzie (who was sleeping in the bed in the next room) couldn’t hear them. “You _can’t—_ Sansa, I’ve seen this.” Tears filled Carol’s eyes, and for a moment Sansa’s surety wavered. She had heard, back in the prison, the story of what had happened to Judith’s mother, Lori. She had heard of the terrible, tragic forced birth where Maggie, Hershel’s eldest daughter, had cut open the woman with a knife and pulled the baby out under Lori’s dying wish. It had killed the mother and, everyone had feared, would kill Rick, too.

Sansa couldn’t help wondering if that was to be her fate too, and if Sandor would succumb to insanity…

She shook herself of the thought as Carol spoke again.

“I’ve seen this play out. You want to be a mom. You want to be a _good_ mom. No one blames you for that. But...but anything could happen, and I’m not even talking about the walkers. What about _your_ health? What if something happens to Sandor? You have to be strong to protect yourself—”

“Why do you think we’re here?” Sansa sighed. “We were going back to the prison, you know. When he found out…Sandor wanted to leave here weeks ago, but I begged to stay. So we’ve stayed, for me.” Her hand cupped the lightly swelling tummy, and she stroked her thumbs over it. “For _us.”_

“Anything could happen,” Carol whispered. She was crying now. Sansa felt horrid, but she wouldn’t be moved so easily. She would waver, but she would not fail her baby. “He could get sick. _You_ could get sick. It’s happened... It’s what happened.” And verging on weepy eyes, Carol began to tell the story of how someone at the prison had contracted an illness and died so quickly that no one knew they were sick at all until it was too late. It was chaos; a walker prowling the cells, where no one expected danger to lurk. People had _died,_ simply because they hadn’t expected it. Death from within, as it were.

_Sandor was right,_ she realized, as Carol told her about the fences failing the nightly build-up of walkers, and the inexplicably sick pigs, and the smaller and smaller numbers. Infected water, clogged with dead bodies. Rival groups, seeking the shelter of the prison. _He was right about everything._ And she told herself she would be sure to thank him extra for protecting them when he got back.

Sansa got to her feet silently, careful not to disturb the girls or the baby, who was sleeping soundly in a makeshift bed on the couch. For a moment, she envied the babe for her ability to drift off in such an unsafe world, and then Sansa squared her shoulders and faced the woman bravely.

“It doesn’t matter, Carol. I’ve made my choice.”

* * *

 

Night had fallen, and Sansa was thanking Sandor in their room.

“Lie down,” she asked him sweetly. Meanwhile she began to disrobe, stepping out of the sweaty clothes and letting them fall to the floor. Her changing body was bare to him, save for the red lace panties which were rapidly becoming too small. Sandor’s stomach clenched at the sight of her belly, the way it curved outwards just enough for him to see plainly the difference. Where there had once been a hollow between her pelvic bones was now filled and lightly overflowing with their baby.

_Their baby._ Fuck him sideways.

He hadn’t wanted to become a father _before_ the apocalypse started. He sure as shit didn’t want one now. But Sansa did, and however much he bitched at her for it, he would never actually force her to miscarry, however much he had threatened it at first. He’d never violate her like that. Fuck, he’d _killed_ people for trying to hurt her – how was he expected to start now?

“Sandor,” she chided amiably. Her hands pressed him backwards so he laid flat on the bed. She grinned even as he scowled. “Don’t think about it now,” she cooed, not in the least offended when he jerked away from her touch. He didn’t _want_ to touch her. He didn’t _want_ to feel her bump with his palms.

He didn’t _want_ to want the baby.

“You haven’t shared my bed properly for almost a month,” she scolded. “It’s time for this nonsense to stop. I’m fine. You’re fine. _We’re_ fine. You can’t stop living just because thing’s have all gone wrong. That’s giving up. That’s quitting, and I don’t quit.”

He wanted to tell her that there was no win or lose – not anymore – and that this was the end of the world, and all they had was each other until one or both of them died. Even if they got back to her home in the north, where the superstitious Ned-fucking-Stark had built a mansion decades ago, under his strict belief, “ _The apocalypse is coming,”_ there was no solution. There was no cure, only death. Maybe small colonies of humans on the way. But Sandor was more and more wary of joining them; people by now had all gone through serious shit. Most would be leery of any strangers, and desperate. Desperate for food, any food, even if it was their own kind...

He wanted to tell her all of this and likely would’ve, had she not slipped his half-hardened cock inside of her at that very minute.

“Ohhhhffffuck,” his slurred words were quiet, but she hushed him anyways with a few careful strokes of her hands along his face. “S...ansa...”

“Too long,” she repeated in a murmur. White noise started to fill his ears. “Far too long...” Christ, how was she so wet for him already? He’d not even touched her and still her skin was slick with salty juices. Pregnancy hormones, possibly?

“Not gonna last, little bird,” he rasped, hands coming up to cradle her hips as she rocked up and down over him. She was panting, her eyes screwed shut in concentration. And sweating, he realized, before cursing under his breath.

“Here,” he pulled her off him with the willpower of the gods, and flipped her carefully onto her back before she could protest. “Don’t want you tiring yourself out,” he added, and pushed into her whilst thanking every god that could hear him for giving them a bed that didn’t squeak while there were kids in the room down the hall. Not that it would’ve stopped him anyways, but Tyreese would’ve been angry, and Sandor didn’t have anything against the guy. Hell, the man had lost his girl to some illness not long ago. Sandor could only imagine what he was going through, and had no desire to flaunt his hot, pregnant woman in his face.

But then again, he’d rather go to hell than not fuck Sansa Stark.

He was right when he said he wouldn’t last. Atop her, he made maybe a dozen strokes before he shoved into her with one last push and rode out his climax inside her, enjoying the way she contracted around him in warm encouragement.

“That’s it,” she sang, as he gave strangled grunts while coming down from his high, muffling them in her neck so they didn’t carry down the hall. “ _That’s_ _it_. God, you’re incredible.”

She never told him she loved him, and they both knew why. Both knew how he’d react if she dared say it aloud.

But he knew how to tell when she was saying it in their own language, the language of desperation and need and maybe a bit of want they had created to survive. You don’t say I love you. And you don’t say I need you. But he could want her and look after her and promise to never leave her, and that was pretty much the same thing, perhaps.

* * *

 

Sansa led the girls out around for a walk, smiling to herself and humming, running a fond hand over her tummy. Since she’d straddled Sandor and ridden him like a horse, he had become more like his old self with her. Touching her, stealing kisses when no one was looking, even daring to lay a flat, heavy palm over her bump every now and then.

Mika and Lizzie, two golden crowns in the sunlight, were running ahead of one another, giggling, darting and leaping over the railroad tracks with ease.

“Be careful,” Sansa called out, not too loudly, and quickened her pace a touch. Ahead of them she could see a decrepit, carved out body lying in the tracks, its arms outstretched but the legs completely rotted away.

“Girls, look out,” she beckoned them sharply, and though Mika came running back to hide behind Sansa, Lizzie ignored her. The bright, blond girl stood there, five feet from Sansa’s reach, with her hand in her pocket.

Sansa thought to what Carol had told her, to what had transpired a day ago. When Lizzie had been caught playing a morbid game of tag with a walker— _her friend,_ she called it _—_ and Carol had stopped her by killing the undead woman. Lizzie had screamed at her, raged, and everyone had chalked it up to poor coping methods.

But now Sansa watched the girl uneasily, watched her draw from her pocket what appeared to be a dead mouse, and carefully hold it out in one hand for the walker in the tracks—“Lizzie, no!”

“What?” she said defensively. “She’s my friend!”

“She’s not anything,” Sansa hissed, and took two quick strides to the girl, seizing her firmly by the shoulder. “She’s dead, Lizzie. Enough.”

Lizzie tossed the mouse to the walker, and continued to stare at her even as Sansa dragged her away. “She’s my friend. She _wants_ me to turn.”

Fear gripped her heart now, true fear, and Sansa wheeled on her heel to tell her off, to tell her how very, very wrong she was, but movement in the bushes behind them cut her off.

A dozen walkers emerged from the trees, more than Sansa could handle with a pair of children to worry about, and they were all burnt, skin rotting, hanging off them, charred black in places like overcooked meat. _The prison,_ Sansa thought with dread, imagining the surviving walkers staggering away from the explosion at the prison with their skin nearly obliterated entirely. With a swallow, Sansa fought back the bile, and Mika gave a terrified scream.

“GO!” Sansa shouted at them, and no one had to be told twice. “GO, RUN!”

She ran a step behind them, protectively, but thankfully they moved fast and neither tripped. “SANDOR!” she shouted, once, and then again. “SANDOR!” Pails clanging and dropping to the ground could be heard ahead, just past the barbed fence.

“SANSA!” He was roaring her name, and then she could see him, see him running full tilt for them, Carol and Tyreese not far behind. Both of his arms were pumping hard, and it looked as though he might simply run the fence over with sheer willpower.

Sansa and the girls had nearly reached the fence; Lizzie scooted under and, with Sansa holding it up with one hand—fighting back tears as the mesh wire cut into her palms—urged Mika to follow. “No,” she gasped, when one walker fell almost right on top of her, grabbing Mika by the ankle and knocking her down. She palmed her pockets for a gun— _damn!_ Damn it all, she’d left it at the cottage, not thinking they would be leaving the house, not thinking at all.

Tyreese or Carol fired their gun, shot the walker holding Mika’s leg. Without wasting a second, Sansa began ushering her once more under the wires, wondering who would hold it for her, and trying to ignore the stinging pain in her hands—

And then Sandor was there, climbing from underneath the fence, shooting blindly behind Sansa without aiming. He took two out by their knees, and stood up.

“Get under,” he bellowed, out of desperation more than anger, and Sansa didn’t hesitate to obey. She scrambled under the fences, allowing Lizzie and Mika to help her. Gunshots were going off steadily, and Sandor was standing there in the open, unprotected _for her,_ because she was too stupid to bring a gods-be-damned _gun._

It was over in a matter of seconds. Between the three of them— _no, five_ , Sansa corrected herself when she saw Mika and Lizzie firing—they all went down like clockwork. Sandor came back to their side on his own, and fired a few more shots as though for good measure.

When all the walkers were dead, everyone froze for a moment and stared at their fallen bodies. Lizzie began to cry, Carol hugged her and praised her for being brave, for finally killing a walker, and Tyreese ran a gentle hand over Mika’s baby-fine hair, Judith tucked safely on his back. The incident from not even ten minutes earlier on the tracks was forgotten by Sansa, and by Mika too, from the looks of it.

And Sandor lunged.

_“God-fuck-Sansa-fuck-you-were-fuck-I-can’t-do-this-fuck-fuck-don’t-do-that-again,”_ his urgent whispers were impossible to decipher from one another, but Sansa knew better than to deny him anything at that moment. On their knees, she held onto him as tight as she dared, as hard as he held her.

“I’m ok,” she breathed into the skin of his neck. She let her eyes flutter shut and breathed him in deeply. It had been a long time since their last scare, and Sansa had nearly forgotten what it was to be that fearful for your life. She clung tighter to his shoulders, broad and wide and still only human. “You protected me. I’m ok. We’re ok.”

“You’re ok,” he repeated numbly. Between them, his hand shifted and slipped carelessly under her sweater, cupping the baby growing there with one large paw. “You’re ok.”

“Fine,” she soothed, and over his shoulder she could see Carol and Tyreese helping Lizzie and Mika to calm down. She smiled faintly at the adults’ surprised expressions but didn’t stop touching him, running her fingers through his greasy hair. They had lost _everything_ in the world, and now they had been given something new, something that was as terrifying as it was thrilling: _a baby._ Sansa fought back the tears and gripped him hard. He matched her every squeeze with a stronger one of his own. “We’re fine. We’re fine.”

_I love you. I love you. I love you._ She wondered if he could feel it or if he knew she’d been saying it all this time, in their funny little language.

“You’re ok,” he muttered it like a mantra.

Sansa knew _exactly_ what that meant.

* * *

 

After the nth brush with death, Sandor had been adamant about not letting Sansa out of his sight. In his mind, it had been a warning, and that next time he might not be so lucky. Sansa had relented to his paranoia, given the circumstances, but made plans to coax his panic back to a minimal level in the near future. The _immediate_ future, at this ungodly rate. She could only stomach so much bubble-wrap.

She and Sandor went their own way after Tyreese and Carol had given the kids strict instructions not to wander from the house _at all,_ and they had agreed readily. They spent the morning hiking along the dirt trails and looking for any food they could use, planning and plotting quietly as they went.

“We’ll need to start setting traps again soon,” Sandor grunted, eyeing the sparse patches of berries with disdain. He had never been cut out for the life of a vegetarian; the man needed meat. The hollows where his muscles had once been bulging were proof of it.

“Well, _you_ can make them,” she huffed, and tried not to envision some poor little bunny strung up by its ankles. She hadn’t been sick for some time, she had no desire to break her record already.

“Best be getting back.” Sandor stretched his arms high overhead with a satisfying crack. “Tyreese wanted to talk to me today, something about setting up permanently here.”

“Oh,” she was surprised, rightfully so. “You’d let him?”

“It’s not like it’s _my_ place,” he snorted. “Besides, we’re headed north soon, remember? Now you’ve stopped being sick, we can head out soon as possible.”

Sansa’s face grew oddly closed off. “Soon as possible,” she repeated in a mumble. Immediately Sandor swirled about and turned on her, towering over her.

_“What?”_ he asked firmly. “You want to go home, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then—”

“Are we interrupting?” They turned around to see Carol and Tyreese standing shoulder to shoulder, Carol frowning at the two of them suspiciously. At once Sansa shook her head, smiling politely at them.

“Of course not. We were just headed inside.”

Carol said nothing, but Tyreese began to talk casually about the structure of the houses, the possibility of walking out to find cars, to do a supply run. Maybe even start creating something here.

Sandor offered grunts wherever the conversation was appropriate, but otherwise neither he nor Sansa said much of anything. The conversation meandered, stretched into idle, casual chatter, the sort Sansa knew Sandor immensely disliked. Carol’s stories about her past were few and far between, but Sansa knew well enough to see that she held little fondness for her deceased husband. Saw well enough that there was little reason to be sad for him.

Carol started to tell a joke, a stupid good joke her husband had told her. “Beer nuts are around a dollar, seventy-nine. _Deer_ nuts are just under a buck.”

Sandor and Tyreese both snorted, and Sansa smiled a bit. “That’s good stupid. But in no way is it stupid good.”

“Told ya,” Carol murmured back, a chuckle on her face with the gun slung over a shoulder. The house was in sight now, a mess of dried brambles skirting the front and sides. It was a cooler afternoon, but the sun was bright at least. Sansa braced a flat palm over her eyes like a visor, squinted at the sight of Lizzie’s figure standing in the distance.

Carol and Tyreese, who were both ahead of Sansa and Sandor, froze half a second, then went running, staggering over their steps, and it was no wonder why.

Horror kept Sansa frozen for a long time, horror at the tableau set up before her.

_It’s a joke,_ she told herself numbly, _this must be a joke._

No. That knife, the blood. That body on the ground, stretched on the picnic blanket like a sad, broken doll. _No._

Sansa sagged against Sandor, who had been just as stunned as she. Lizzie stood there, knife in hand, with the red blade glinting in the sun. Judith was playing next to the body— _oh god, the body._ Mika’s sweet little face was chalky, ashen white with blood seeping from her sides. God, she was so small. _She was so small._

Where had the walker come from? Sansa thought wildly. How did it get through the fences?

“Don’t worry,” Lizzie was saying cheerfully, standing in front of Mika’s dead body. “She’ll come back. I didn’t hurt her brain.”

Sansa crept closer, clinging to Sandor’s arm. She could see Mika’s face now, the splatter of blood drops on her cheeks. Oh god. _Oh god._ Did that mean—had Lizzie actually--?

The urge to burst into tears was almost insurmountable, combatted only by the compelling need to wrap Judith up in her arms, and carry her as far from Lizzie and the knife as possible.

Carol took a shaky step to Lizzie. To kill her, disarm her, hug her—Sansa wasn’t sure. But the child reacted instantly, wielding the gun fearlessly. “No, no, no! We have to wait! I need to show you, you’ll see, you’ll _finally_ get it! We have to wait.”

Sansa slid her gaze uncertainly to Tyreese and Carol, both wearing equal looks of horror and grief. Mika. God, sweet little Mika… Sansa did start to cry then, turning into Sandor’s chest, shielding her face with her hands.

“She’ll come back,” Lizzie said over and over. “You just have to wait!”

“Lizzie.” Tyreese’s voice was soft and gentle. Sansa knew it wasn’t for show. “Put the gun down.”

“I just want us to wait!” Lizzie cried, desperation seeping through.

“We can wait. We _can_ wait. You just give me the gun,” Carol, trembling and tearful, reached out for the gun. “We can wait, I swear.” A glimmer of a reassuring smile, one Sansa knew was definitely for show.

“You and Tyreese should take Judith back.” Carol nodded to him. Sansa nearly lunged for the baby then, hands curling in on themselves out of fervent need. “It’s not safe for her.”

“But Judith can change too.” Lizzie stared up at them, wide-eyed and doe-like. “I was just about to—”

“She can’t even walk.” Carol interrupted her swiftly, and Sansa felt her heart bottom out into her stomach. _I was just about to…_ No. Not Judith, not her too.

“Yeah…” Lizzie considered it for a moment. “You’re right.”

“You, Tyreese and Sandor go take Judith back to the house and have lunch, and Sansa and I’ll just…tie Mika up, so she won’t go anywhere.”

“Promise that’s what you’ll do?” Lizzie looked to Carol earnestly. Such a pretty girl, such a sweet girl. Sandor laid a hand on the flat of Sansa’s back, steadying her when she began to sway dangerously.

“Promise.” Carol tried the smile again. “I’ll use her shoelaces.”

“Let’s go Lizzie.” Tyreese took Judith in his large arms, and guided Lizzie away with a careful touch. Sandor trailed behind them, glancing uneasily over his shoulder at the two women. Sansa didn’t look to him, only at Carol, who had started shaking.

Only when they went inside did Carol break, throw down her gun and begin to weep. She keeled over, sobbing and swearing and Sansa had _never_ seen her like this, so utterly undone that it made Sansa weep all the more.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Carol whimpered, cupping sweet little Mika’s baby face in her hands and kissing her pale forehead goodbye. “I’m so— _so_ —sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sansa whispered, while she laid a careful hand on Carol’s shoulder. The older woman gave no notice of the gesture, or even that she spoke for a while.

Carol answered her after several gut-wrenching moans. “I should’ve known. I should’ve...”

“You didn’t,” Sansa soothed, and pet her short silver strands of hair like she would have done a distraught child. But Judith is the baby and she’s laughing, and _Carol_ is the adult who is inconsolable, who has lost even _more_ now.

“There’s nothing we can do for her.” Carol finally looked up at Sansa and saw her staring down at her with understanding and devastation warring in her eyes. “She...Lizzie can’t be around people.”

Carol was right, but Sansa was reluctant to concede defeat so quickly.

“If we could get the right tools for her...” Sansa suggested feebly. Because where are they going to find a psychiatrist in the middle of the end of the world?

“But we can’t.”

No. They certainly can’t. And poor Mika has paid the price for it.

* * *

 

Carol killed Lizzie not long afterwards. She talked with Sandor and Sansa and Tyreese, and they listened. Spoke up, when asked. But everyone seemed to know, deep down, that there was nothing which could be done, really.

“We can’t leave her with Judith,” Carol spoke first. “It’s not safe. She doesn’t understand… She can’t be around people, period.”

“And she can’t be left alone,” Sandor said grimly. “She’s too young, for one, and even if she could defend herself against the walkers, it’s just as likely she’ll play with them.”

“We don’t have the help for her she needs,” Sansa said very quietly, after the decision had been made. “If there were another way… If Tyreese and Judith—”

“No,” Tyreese said firmly. “I’m not letting Carol go off on her own with Lizzie. What happens when she gets stronger, or when you need sleep, Carol, or you get outnumbered?”

“Well, I’m not splitting from Sansa,” Sandor added simply, with a scoff. He wasn’t without sympathy, though, and even offered to do it himself. “I’ll make it quick. Sneak out, so she doesn’t know I’m there. Won’t feel a thing.”

“No,” Carol said quietly. “No, it has to be me. It has to be me, doesn’t it?” She looked helplessly to a teary-eyed Tyreese, whose face was so full of sorrow that it hurt Sansa to look at. Wincing, she cupped the back of Judith’s head and held her closer, gently. Sandor caught the movement from the corner of his eye and ran a tender hand down the baby’s back, almost without thinking. She hid a smile, knowing now was neither the time nor place to get emotional over Sandor’s impending fatherhood.

Carol went outside with a handgun, took Lizzie out to the flowers and then there was nothing but a bang. Sansa started to cry again, and poor Judith was so disgruntled, she didn’t know what to make of any of it, wailing unhappily at the lack of attention.

It wasn’t until early next morning that Sansa or Sandor spoke to the two remaining adults, whose faces were drawn with heavy grief and sorrow. “We’re leaving. We can’t… I have to try and find Rick and Carl, for Judith.” Carol hefted the baby in her arms gently.

Sandor and Sansa exchanged a look. They had talked about this, should the situation arise. Sansa hadn’t backed down an inch in her say.

“We’re coming,” she declared, and Sandor just folded his arms over his chest and glared at them all. It was plain who had voted for which option.

“Ok,” Tyreese said, and nodded gratefully at the pair. “We appreciate it, guys.”

* * *

 

“What do you think?” Sansa was holding Judith, looking uncertainly to the others. The sign was strangely official, striving to be welcoming at least.

Still…there was something unsettling about the frankness of it all. TERMINUS. SANCTUARY FOR ALL. She held the baby tighter.

“I think Rick and the others would be there. They would want to meet up somewhere.” Carol shared a glance with Tyreese, who quietly agreed.

Sandor spat on the ground, grim-faced. “Alright then. Looks like were headed to Terminus.”

**Author's Note:**

> Meh, I don't know. Do you want to see more of them? I like them in the Walking Dead verse quite a lot... But meh. I'm torn over continuing. Thoughts? Deepest desires? Tell me them all!
> 
> Please R&R. Take pity on me, I'm sick. *cough, cough*
> 
> Ciao darlings, 
> 
> MissMallora


End file.
